


The Start of Nothing

by marinams



Series: Jane Austen Manchester University AU [2]
Category: AUSTEN Jane - Works, Emma - Jane Austen
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Angst, Genderswap, Jane Fairfax is Jamie Fashanu here, Lots of Cursing, Lots of music talk, M/M, Sad Ending, WARNING: VERY ROMANTIC, but not fluffy, happy ending will happen in another fic, recommended if you like 1) music talk 2) psychological examinations of romantic feelings, two boys in love and in a rock band
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-01 11:01:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17243075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marinams/pseuds/marinams
Summary: Sexually-confused punk Gemini might have feelings for shy quiet talented Piscis drummer with two jobs and enough problems.Or: What if all the rakes in Jane Austen fiction, plus a genderswapped Jane Fairfax, started an indie rock band in modern Manchester, UK?He'd noticed sometimes his gaze dragging around his face, he’d noticed before how it lingered around his lips, and even lower, at his arms, and even lower. And this look was that now, but more intensely, or simply longer, or less contained. Frank was licking his lower lip, both hands on the bass, and was staring at Jamie as if he were something he really wanted. Jamie had the urge to look behind him, but no, Frank's dilated pupils were directed solely at him, whether he knew it or not. And he must have, mustn’t he? He must have known he was dying to shag Jamie, if not him, who else?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: This consists of short scenes that illustrate the (v much romantic) relationship between Frank and Jamie, and can be read as a stand-alone or not. It takes place before, during and after my fic Dear Lula (finished but in editing process, currently posting it) and Dear Lula 2 (WIP, title TBD). 
> 
> It can be read a stand alone, but the 3rd chapter ends badly. You can read it, if you don't mind, or you can leave it at chapter 2, which is quite conclusive and has got a Happy-for-Now ending.
> 
> The format was inspired by Sally Rooney's _Normal People_ , and the title, by Frank Ocean's _Ivy_.  
> 

_I thought that I was dreaming when you said you loved me_  
_The start of nothing, I had no chance to prepare_  
_I couldn't see you coming_  


**DECEMBER 2015**

"Going down?"

"Yep."

They met right before the winter holidays, at Jamie’s first practice with the band. The previous drummer had quit weeks earlier and, though Frank had barely got to play with him, he still resented the change. Not because he’d valued his skills so much, but because he doubted anyone else’s. It was relatively easy to find good drummers, but good wasn’t the same as _good_. It wasn’t long before he and his bandmates realised Jamie was the latter. During these sessions, they would sometimes look up from their instruments and to each other, discreetly seeking confirmation of the talent they were witnessing. They’d nod and raise their brows when Jamie picked up a beat just a second after he’d been taught it, when he let it run to unpredictable paths, when he distractedly tapped a rhythm with his drumsticks on the side drum.

Jamie became his talent, in a way that it was easy to neglect him as a potential friend. It didn’t help the fact that he was serious, quiet, and shy, that he never talked about himself and barely ever laughed at their jokes. They sensed, more than noticed, there was some distance between him and them, and, instead of trying to bridge it, respected it for fear of scaring him off: Never asking him where he was going, where he’d come from, if he’d grab a pint with them? Nothing was done consciously, though, nothing except that first Going down? from Frank, three weeks after their first band practice together.

Jamie said Yep, as Frank had guessed he would. Unlike Crawford and Will, who had just recently moved to a flat in the Northern Quarter, Frank had to take the bus all the way to Didsbury after practice. He’d figured that Jamie, being a Uni student, would at least go as far as Victoria, and he’d been right.

After that Yep, Frank suggested taking the bus, and Jamie replied that he’d walk. Not that he would prefer it if they walked, but that he would walk, regardless. So, Frank agreed, even if it was raining and it was already as dark as it would get.

It became a habit. After band practice, they would wait up for each other, walk for almost an hour in silence and say their goodbyes in front of Jamie’s halls. There, Frank would take the bus home—he’d rather spend the half pound than to walk by himself for another hour.

 

**Four months later  
MARCH 2016**

Frank had never seen Jamie outside of the context of the band: outside of the studio they rehearsed in, outside of their weekly hour-long walk. So it was not because he didn’t recognise him—the long face, the tall forehead, the broad shoulders, and the dark skin, all of it was unmistakable—but because he was not prepared to see him in a pub, or to see him, period, on a day that wasn’t Wednesday, that he took so long to acknowledge his presence. To take him in, to approach him, to say, Jamie, mate, to basically his back.

The rest of the band, and even some of Frank’s friends, assumed that because they came and went together, him and Jamie, that because one offered excuses for the other when he was late or couldn’t come, that they were friends outside of the band. Possibly not like Crawford and Will, but friends enough to, at least, walk in conversation. The truth was, it was still silence that governed their relationship, even of a different kind than it had been at the beginning. Jamie had started talking more at practice, mostly about music, but also about his courses at Uni, his little brothers. So, if they ever gave the thought a second, it was to presume that he was even more open to Frank. This was not necessarily true, though not exactly false either.

Something was going on between them: they’d started to understand each other with a nod, a tilt of the head, with a cough or a clearing of the throat. Frank stared, sometimes for too long, at Jamie’s tense arms, at the curve of Jamie’s lips. He’d never bothered to analyse why he did that—no, he’d done more than not bothered: he’d actively shut off any foray of his brain into anything that had to do with Jamie. If he didn’t let it become a thought, then it couldn’t become. That was the logic.

Frank had been attracted to a guy before, just the one. He was a first year and the guy had been a bit older, and objectively fit. He hadn’t ever thought that snogging him made him gay—it hadn’t gone much further than that, to be honest, and only for a couple of times. He hadn’t questioned his tendencies since, secretly reassured every time he enjoyed getting off with a girl. The experience had been forgotten, locked out of his memory, and negated completely when accidentally brought back by a Proustian memory: he hadn’t enjoyed it; the guy had been very effeminate and so it didn’t count; he’d been too young; it was all a dream, it hadn’t happened. The fact that Jamie provoked in him a bodily reaction—of awe, of horniness—was disruptive to the whole story he had created about his persona: Jamie was just a very masculine, very cis guy.

The problem was, of course, that to explore a thought or sensation, even if only to negate it, would’ve helped him cope with it—repressing it tightly only meant that it transpired into other behaviours, other hardly explainable emotions.

And so that last Wednesday at band practice, when Frank and Crawford had had a heated discussion on the chord progression of the song they were working on and Jamie had not weighted in, he’d been illogically furious at him. Did he not care what his band played? Could he not tell the difference? The anger—in itself a translation of his let’s-call-it-feelings—had translated into long stares at Jamie’s face, at him licking his lips when Jamie bit his, which he did sometimes. Frank’s self-narrative had been so well rendered and presented that no one considered what was really happening a possibility, which, in turn, meant that he could continue to stare at Jamie with impunity.

And so he said, Jamie, mate, and Jamie turned around to look at him. Jamie, who was wearing blue jeans instead of the usual joggers, who was talking to a guy Frank didn’t know, who was drinking a pint, was quick to erase the surprise from his face and say, tonelessly:

“Churchill.”

Frank realised then that this had been the first time Jamie had said his name, and then it had been his last name, really. Something inside him twisted a bit, and to hide it, he patted Jamie’s shoulder.

“Alright, mate?”

Jamie only nodded, but Frank wasn’t done. His anger was layered: he told himself Jamie’s lack of opinion was what bothered him, suspecting it came from a place of jealousy at his raw talent, sensing it irrationally came from being attracted to him. Without removing the hand from his shoulder, he leaned forward to shake the hand of Jamie’s friend.

“Frank,” and see if Jamie called him that next time, “one of his bandmates.”

The guy, spectacled and long-haired, with a kind face, smiled widely.

“Fuck off, you’re in a band?” Jamie shrugged. Why hadn’t he told? Did he honestly not care?

“Fucking yeah he’s in a band,” Frank answered for him tensely, finally removing the hand but not before a final patting. “A fucking genius too, he is.”

It was hard to tell if he was doing this to make Jamie feel awkward, or because he couldn’t help himself. As if saying it with a tone of contempt and detachment could help him mask the truth: the result was he wasn’t lying, and he still was being a dick.

The friend, still smiling, still addressing Jamie, asked:

“What do you play?”

Frank was about to answer when Jamie cut him, in a voice that was clear and categorical—something unusual in him:

“The drums. I play the drums.”

For a second, there was silence. Frank hadn’t seen Jamie’s face when he’d said he was a genius—no one had seen Jamie’s face, in fact, his shift in expression had been completely unwitnessed—but now, he was looking at him almost defiantly. After the initial surprise, Frank smiled and, for a fraction of a second, Jamie smiled too. Then, Frank said:

“The best, as I said.” Only after saying it did he felt a blush creeping up his neck and towards his face. He drank from his pint to hide the fact and to cool himself off, looking away at the distance.

“Thanks.”

That silence was there again, until the friend, thank god, intervened:

“So, when are you next playing?”

“Nothing’s planned yet,” Jamie answered as if words had started to come more easily to him. His voice was not exactly deep but low and, at the same time clear, assured. Frank moved back and said, looking at the friend but speaking to both:

“Well you, have a good one.”

He didn’t dare look back at them until he was quite far. A fair amount of people between them, his face felt cold again. He finished his beer.

 

**Three weeks later  
APRIL 2016**

After that less-than-a-quarter-smile at the pub Jamie had given him, after his reclaiming the conversation with his clear low voice, Frank had started noticing Jamie wasn’t in fact as passive as he’d previously assumed. He nodded sometimes imperceptibly when he agreed with something someone said, and he clenched his jaw when he didn’t. Instead of juggling with the drumsticks or hitting the cymbals and drums between songs, like Frank had seen other drummers do, Jamie rubbed his drumsticks pensively with his thumb, completely unaware that he was doing it. Frank couldn’t stare at it for too long.

The first practice after the pub had been particularly tense, despite all the effort Frank had put into acting as if nothing had happened. He’d waited for Jamie to put away his things and to pack his backpack, so that they could leave the studio together as always. Also as always, they had walked in silence to Jamie’s halls, and then, near the end of their walk, Frank had heard himself say: Fancy a pint? and Jamie’d shrugged and they’d gone to a pub. For the next three weeks, they had gone to the pub after every practice, their conversation growing in intensity with each new visit.

The pub had also disclosed they had something other than music in common: they were both quite good at holding a stare.

Which was exactly what they were doing now at the pub, Frank taking too long to reply, and Jamie looking at him with his brows up, not pressing him for an answer but clearly awaiting one. The thought he’d been trying to put into words had got lost on its way to his lips, and now Frank just stared at Jamie with a too intense look in his eyes. All his concentration was put into not looking at Jamie’s lips, but still the thought eventually manifested, and he remembered what they had been talking about (autotune).

“It is cheating though.”

“How you figure?” It took Jamie a few seconds to gather his thoughts, too.

“Well, it’s not real.”

“It’s sound,” Jamie was almost smiling, which could be told not so much from the shape of his lips, but of his eyes, slightly crinkled at the sides, “if you hear it, it’s real, mate.”

Frank had to laugh there, a short, sonorous laugh.

“No, but really, is the sound of an acoustic bass more real than of an electric bass, then?”

“Oh, piss off. It’s not the same: you still play the notes,” Jamie just raised his eyebrows now, openly questioning him. Frank leaned towards him, gesturing with his empty hand, some of his smallest tattoos visible: a spade, the triangle that signified a Play button, the word ‘on’—with the rest of the sentence it belonged to hidden under his shirt. “I sort of get it when it’s used for effect, as a sort of embellishment. Though it’s not my thing.” He leaned back again.

“But as a pitch corrector? That’s—that’s—”

Jamie nodded, drinking his beer, and waiting to see with which word he’d come up.

“Hasn’t got any integrity,” concluded Frank.

“You’re not into immoral music, then?” that was the closest Jamie had ever been to teasing him, and, noticing it himself, he looked down at his feet.

“Aye, take the piss, that’s alright, mate.”

“I mean, I get you, but it’s an instrument,” Frank winced, and he corrected, “or a tool, alright. It’s sort of pretentious to be against its use in general.”

“Well, aren’t you?”

“Are you kidding?” Despite how much more openly Jamie looked at him right now compared to a few weeks ago, his posture was still a bit defensive. He talked and smiled as if they were friends but, unlike Frank, he never leaned forward or in his direction, never moved his hands or knees anywhere near him. He looked stiff, or he would’ve if Frank hadn’t grown used to see him like that. “I wouldn’t want to live in a world without Unfinished Sympathy, what, without Risingson and the entirety of Blue Lines?”

Frank was so taken aback, he just stared at Jamie in silence for a full second. For an incomprehensible reason, he felt suddenly hot, so he gulped down half of his beer.

“So, Massive Attack?”

“Best band there is,” Jamie shrugged, maybe too late aware of what he’d disclosed, but certain there was no backing down now, “in my opinion.”

As musicians, to reveal one’s favourite band wasn’t a small thing. Frank had mentioned many but had never stated his—which changed—and in fact, when he’d asked Jamie quite at the start of their walks together, Jamie’d answered: I like many bands. The knobhead. Now it turned out he did have a favourite band, and it was not what Frank had expected: both because it was too different from his favourite bands, and because he would’ve never guessed it from what he thought he knew about him (nothing, turned out). Of course, Frank considered his own taste, which only contemplated dirty hardcore guitar rock and post-punk, to be universal and objective.

“Wouldn’t have guessed it,” Frank admitted, “but I get it.”

“Another great band: Imagine Dragons,” Jamie wasn’t a kidder, so his cue for blushing would’ve been about now. What he instead did was look down at his lager to hide his grin.

“You wanker!” Frank said after a few seconds of stunned disbelief, and then roared with laughter. He pushed Jamie to one side, maybe leaving his hand on his arm for a bit longer than necessary, maybe clasping his bicep too deliberately. “You’re a fucking genius, you are, but I would’ve kicked you off the band mate, no question, just out.”

Now Jamie laughed openly, trying not to fall of his stool, in a way Frank had never seen. Although, yes—he had seen him laugh before, just maybe not at something he had said, at a joke only they had shared. Jamie half-covered his mouth with a hand for a second, but Frank was too agitated in general to react, despite how cute it was.

“I thought my heart was gonna stop.”

“You’re a right git.”

“You cannot joke about this,” Frank was smiling now, though, and had moved his hand back on the bar top. “Alright, then: Massive Attack. What else?”

After that night, the post-band practice pint became a habit, only postponed when Uni work intervened, and once that Frank had been down with a fever. He didn’t trust himself around Jamie with a temperature.

 

**Two months later  
JUNE 2016**

Jamie hated how his brain had erased the details of the first time he’d met Frank. He'd forgotten the exact moment he'd crossed the door, that their eyes had first met. He could remember the first time he’d set eyes on Will, and maybe even Crawford. They'd been there for his first try outs with the band, and he remembered they’d seemed anxious, anxious to find a good drummer, to be done with the search already, and he had barely cared. That is, he had talked himself out of it so much—he didn’t have the time, he had already one job apart from Uni, he didn’t need more distractions—that the excitement over which he’d contacted Crawford on Facebook had mostly dissipated by then. And then he’d seen them, Crawford, who you could tell knew what he talked about, and Will, who gave him both hope at not being the only black guy and despair at having to concentrate around someone so despairingly handsome. Ultimately and unexpectedly, he got in: They shook his hand and told him to come back next Wednesday.

And that was when he’d met Frank. He must have been sitting by his drums already when Frank had arrived, he couldn’t tell. But wasn’t that what they did? Frank was always late, and Jamie was always sitting behind the drums. No, he did not remember the first time he’d laid eyes on him however much he tried—had he found him handsome? he wasn’t in any way remarkable: average height, on the scrawny side of thin, pale and tattooed—nor what exactly did he wear—though Frank always looked nice, like he always looked ready to go for a run—nor what he’d said—not even what he’d thought when he’d first heard his very Scottish accent. He did remember, though, how very intently Frank had been looking at him, distrust barely hidden in his eyes, and how much he’d wanted to prove himself because of it.

At today’s session, Crawford and Frank had been discussing on whether it was better to keep the song as it was, ending it after repeating the chorus two times (Crawford’s version) or to build it up again with their pre-chorus and then leave it there, hanging (Frank’s). They’d had many arguments of the sort in the past weeks, and Jamie mostly sided with Crawford, which was the reason he never voiced his opinion. This time, though, he’d thought Frank’s idea had some interest and, from behind the drums, he’d said:

“I think we could give it a go, after ‘door’ you go,” he did the chords on his drum, and then pointed at Will, “and he starts directly at ‘as high as—’” He stopped himself then, both because he couldn’t continue with Frank looking at him like that, and because Crawford had shrugged and already got on it.

After a few weeks, Frank’s look of wariness, of measured distrust, had been shifting towards something else. Jamie had noticed it and hadn’t minded, he had, in fact, given him some looks of his own when he believed himself unobserved. What had these looks shifted towards, though? It took him long enough to realise Frank was looking at him with interest: Interest in him musically, but also—well, one hoped.

And at one point, one knew.

Now they played it as Jamie had suggested, each focused on his instrument, and when he looked up it was to find Frank staring at him. He'd noticed sometimes his gaze dragging around his face, he’d noticed before how it lingered around his lips, and even lower, at his arms, and even lower. And this look was that now, but more intensely, or simply longer, or less contained. Frank was licking his lower lip, both hands on the bass, and was staring at Jamie as if he were something he really wanted. Jamie had the urge to look behind him, but no, Frank's dilated pupils were directed solely at him, whether he knew it or not. And he must have, mustn’t he? He must have known he was dying to shag Jamie, if not him, who else? Jamie resisted too the urge to look down at the drums, he felt a wave of courage invade him and, holding his vaguely-absent stare, smiled directly at him. He hadn't planned it, but the smile was a smirk. It didn't show his teeth, it went higher on one side than the other, and jumped to his eyes, which were shining. It was a knowing smirk. If Frank had been unaware of his own look, now he could no longer be. Jamie saw him realise what he was doing, the look that crossed his face and, then, how he looked away, as flushed as he'd ever seen him. Good.

 

**One week later  
JUNE 2016**

Jamie remembered their first nights at the pub together with fondness for the person he had been then: still afraid to voice his opinion, that no-one would care, that he would mess it up and the fantasy would shatter; afraid that the only thing they liked about him were his skills at the drums. After that first night in March, they’d gone together to the pub after band practice, which normally meant every Wednesday, but sometimes meant two, three times a week, and sometimes meant not once for half a month. Those first nights had nothing to do with the present, with the past couple weeks, with the time they spent together now, both the four as a group and only the two of them as friends. To anyone, the change would’ve seemed gradual, and he was sure Frank would have hardly attributed the change to himself, or been able to pinpoint what had produced it, but Jamie could explain it in a simple, perfect, magic moment. They had been at the pub, the two of them, talking about some story Frank’d heard from a classmate regarding a somewhat mad teacher (by that point they knew everything about each other’s lives and friends, about their families, about their hopes for the band and their favourite songs—they talked about everything to each other except sex and romance) when a friend of Frank had approached them and Frank had introduced Jamie as his mate. The same thrill Jamie’d felt all these weeks ago when he’d introduced himself as “his bandmate” ran through his body, realising only at that moment that the same label now would’ve hurt him. His mate, then, his mate. Jamie had classmates here in Manchester, he had flatmates, had workmates and bandmates—but Frank was his mate.

And despite the Old Trafford-sized crush he had on Frank, being mates didn’t feel like settling. He was quite aware he liked Frank as more than a friend but had made peace with it, rather certain nothing would come of it. He didn’t dwell on his feelings much, just enough to be aware of them: both the attraction that was physical—Dear lord his deep-set green eyes and long bony tattooed hands, the bags under his eyes, Dear fucking lord his hard jaw-line and shaved head; Jamie dreamt about biting his earring and ear too—and the connection he felt to him—he enjoyed his prickly personality and harsh sense of humour; he saw his flaws and accepted them as if he were a kid or an old man, not as if they had to be corrected but as if they were his and unnegotiable.

He’d told himself Frank’s stares meant nothing, as Frank kept pretending that they didn’t happen and they continued to be friends. But then last week had happened, that blush, that long horny stare. Whatever that had been, Frank had felt the need to leave practice in a hurry “to meet some friends” instead of walking with him. And today was their last session before the holidays, before Jamie went home to London and they didn’t see each other for almost three months. The significance of this weighted heavily on Jamie’s shoulders, could be noticed in his walk, the way he played the drums that night.

Because, from the drums, Jamie had looked at Frank the whole time. Frank hadn’t looked back, not as if he had better things to do, but as if he were trying very hard not to, and so Jamie knew. That it wasn’t in his head, that he was not as crazy as to nurture a one-sided crush for so long for no reason, that something in him had known all along. He was still scared Frank would never admit it, to him or even to himself, but that was an altogether different kind of fear: The fear of something so long in his head becoming real. He’d played distractedly, messed up a few times, and, despite how concentrated Frank had looked, he had too. Crawford had talked, and Frank hadn’t even had the energy to contradict him, too focused on not looking at Jamie. Jamie had talked, wishing to get his attention, but Frank had only gazed at his direction, never quite meeting his eyes. Jamie had wanted him to look: to reassure himself this was real, and to reassure Frank that it was alright.

Now Crawford declared practice concluded and the lot of them useless, so they said their goodbyes and left gradually, Jamie the last one. When he got outside, Frank was waiting for him at the door, head just shaven that morning, his shirt rolled-up to the elbows (his ‘Pavlovian rude’ tattoo in sight, as well as some drawings of music notes, a dog, and a dead tree). He looked at him and Jamie looked back, neither daring to smile. The walk down, in silence, was reminiscent of the ones they’d shared half a year ago. As they approached the pub they normally went to, Frank asked, Fancy a pint? And Jamie said, Yes, although he didn’t. His stomach was shut, despite the dry throat, and Jamie played at wetting his lips and pretending to drink without finishing his pint. Frank was on his third, words barely had been uttered, and Jamie still couldn’t drink. He knew what this meant, he knew what was happening: Frank was building up his courage. The idea was both surreal and largely obvious. What else was there to do?

They left the pub after Frank’s fourth pint, still not drunk, though, and walked to Jamie’s halls like always. The moment was so charged the silence was unnoticeable, thick as words. It was dark, it was past ten at night, there was no-one in sight. Frank stared at Jamie in silence, unmoving, where they usually said goodbye. After what could’ve been some minutes, Frank started off with a: Well, see you next—and Jamie couldn’t handle it. Maybe it was Frank’s glowing eyes, maybe that he’d noticed how he had been looking at his lips, maybe that he felt protected by the night, by the drinks, maybe simply that he wanted it so much. Jamie moved toward Frank—who didn’t look away for even a second—and kissed him lightly on the lips. Unassumingly but certain, it didn’t pretend to be anything else than a kiss on the lips.

Frank didn’t move, he just stared. Jamie pulled away his hand, which had been hovering around Frank’s shoulders, and looked him in the eyes. Frank was too stunned to look away, so Jamie turned his back on him, neither apologising nor acknowledging the kiss.

He said: “Well, bye,” and left.

The day after that, it was Frank’s birthday.

 

**Five weeks later  
JULY 2016**

Frank’s head had needed almost a month to wrap up around the idea that Jamie had kissed him—and that that meant that he liked him, that Jamie liked him, romantically, or sexually, or whatever. It took him a few more days to realise that, maybe, it would be alright to try and figure out what he’d felt about it. The first clue to that was in the way his body had reacted: by becoming petrified. He’d felt heavier than ever, no other way to put it, his whole body had felt immense, and heavy, but also detached from him. Afterwards, he’d wanted to puke, and yet, at one point he would have to admit, he’d been hard. And now, when he though about it, the feeling was not exactly pleasurable, but also not the opposite. It rose up on his body, but he shut it before it got to anything classifiable, identifiable. Why? He couldn’t help it.

After more than a week, each day letting the feeling become more and more material, he felt it creeping up, that sensation, that feeling, and instead of shutting it, he let it grow: from his stomach, to the tip of his fingers, his arm hair; he let it rise to his face, blushing it, and to his chest, accelerating his heart rate.

Well, fuck.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frank hadn’t stopped talking their whole way there, about music, the weather, anything that had crossed his mind, apparently. Jamie’d been wondering if he should interrupt to invite him inside, when Frank had gone and, amidst all the babbling, had said, Can I come in? And Jamie’d said, as if he hadn’t been dying to hear just that, What are you, a vampire? Just get in.

_Arm around my shoulder so I could tell_  
_How much I meant to you, meant it sincere back then_  
_We had time to kill back then_

 

 

**Two months later  
SEPTEMBER 2016**

Frank was there, in his blue bomber jacket and his earring and his teeth-baring smile. He’d never seen Frank among friends, only the band, and what he discovered was thrilling. Frank was social, he was popular, people stopped to say hiya to him, and he talked to strangers. He was fit, he looked hot, and all of Jamie’s work during the summer getting over him had just gone down the drain.

They had met already for band practice after the holidays, although they hadn’t practiced at all. Instead, they’d just gone to the pub and talked about their summer, their upcoming plans. Crawford had just graduated, and he was looking to dedicate all his hours to the band, to writing songs, finding a manager, and turning part of his flat into a recording studio. Will, who’d never finished his degree, had found a job at one of the pubs they often went to in the NQ, after a short visit to Kingston where instead of spending time with his always-busy dad, he’d learned to surf. Jamie, Jamie’d had a brilliant summer at home in Lewisham, working at the fruit and vegetables shop, helping his mum, playing with his little brothers, meeting old friends, and babysitting his months-old cousin. Frank had barely said a thing the whole night, and though he’d seemed happy to be there, he had avoided looking at Jamie. He had showed them his newest arm-tattoo, a drawing from the new Parquet Courts’ art—his favourite band from May to August 2016—and admitted to having spent the summer in Manchester, only going home up in the Scottish countryside once to collect birthday money from his step-dad.

Wanting to leave all the I-though-you-wanted-me-too-misunderstanding behind, Jamie had been nice and casual to Frank, as if they were still best mates. He’d noticed, however, that Frank was uncomfortable around him, unable to look him in the eyes, so he had also been careful and tactful, a bit shy. As they left after the pub (separate ways), he had wanted to give him the heads-up and had told him that Charlie Bingley had hired him to DJ their house party, in case he didn’t know. Frank had known, he said, and he was happy for him, he also said. Jamie hadn’t known what to say to that, and the kiss had remained unmentioned.

At the party, it gave him hope to see Frank greeting him with a smile, introducing him to his flatmates and friends, handing him a drink whenever he saw he’d finished the previous one. Not hope that something romantic would happen between them, just hope that things would get back to normal. As if to prove a point, despite being so friendly to him, Frank spent most of the night flanked by girls—and right in front of him. Was he flaunting his heterosexuality? It was a small price to pay, he thought— _lies_ —if they could be friends again.

The party seemed to never end, Jamie’s energy deflating long before Frank’s. After his gig ended, when only a handful of the guests remained, Frank helped him pack the van with the set he’d brought. Both things had been lent to him, van and DJ set, and he’d promised both to their rightful owners by the next morning so: Really, he was sorry, but he should be leaving. He said his goodbyes to Charlie—the only other host still awake—and to Crawford’s sister, who was one of the girls who’d been with Frank but now seemed to have cosied up with a not-Frank guy.

Frank said he would walk him to the van, and he did, he walked him to the van and stared at him in silence, either waiting for Jamie to get in the car or—Had Frank changed his mind?

Jamie looked at him and played with the car keys in his hands. He looked up from them to see that Frank was still staring at him, unmoving and silent. They were both standing, one in front of the other, right by the van. A silent staring content—That was happening, right? He wasn’t brave enough to kiss Frank a second time, to handle rejection a second time, but he was also quite sure that this was what this situation merited.

“Well, then…”

Jamie cleared his throat and turned around to open the door of the van, only to hear Frank say, Wait, to hear Frank say, Jamie.

Jamie turned around very slowly, not wanting to hope too much, and still hoping for everything. He looked at Frank from between his lashes and saw him approach with determination—a determination that faltered when Jamie didn’t do anything. Frank shook his head, talking himself out of it. Jamie could see he was talking himself out of it, the coward. So he said:

“What?”

And Frank went and kissed him, a kiss that was almost a head-bump, short and hard and superficial. Jamie pushed him away, What are you doing? Frank was supposed to look like he was enjoying it, and he didn’t, he looked startled, scared, What? Paralysed.

At that moment their eyes finally met: Frank was not looking at his lips, Jamie wasn’t concentrated on Frank’s frown, they looked at each other in the eye and, after a synchronized sigh, Frank leaned towards him—and Jamie met him half-way. Jamie’s hand untensed, and he felt his palm tingle warm over Frank’s collarbone. The kiss was hard and urgent, Frank felt Jamie’s teeth hit his and neither of them had the presence of mind to tilt their heads. They hit the van’s rear-view mirror and neither found the levity to laugh at it.

When they came up for air, Jamie’s hand was the only thing that connected them. Frank was red, Jamie could tell because it was past five in the morning and the sun was already coming up, but he didn’t look scared anymore. Frank said, I’ve missed you. And Jamie thought he would die. Instead, he pulled Frank towards him and kissed him slowly, how he’d wanted to do that night in June. To kiss him properly, he’d wanted then, he did now, gradually deepening the kiss and bringing him closer. Frank returned the kiss and held onto him. When they finally moved away, they were both smiling. There wasn’t much that could be said that would mean half of what that kiss had. Jamie brought a hand to the back of Frank’s head and kissed him under his ear, at his pointy jaw-line. He’d wanted to do that for a while now. And if checking off items of their wishlist was what they were doing, then Frank wanted to, and did, pull Jamie away to bite and lick his lower lip, which looked mental, which looked hot, which looked out of this world.

 

**One month later  
OCTOBER 2016**

The kiss hadn’t lasted forever, not even figuratively. They’d parted when the first sounds of people coming out of the house had returned them to reality, Jamie leaving for his halls and Frank back inside. Consequential as it had felt, they both had feared for the next five days that this was all, that that had been all. That either they wouldn’t dare repeat it or that if they did, it would never measure up. But, after practice next Wednesday, they had walked back to the halls between laughs and small talk, feeling nervous and happy both. Frank had suggested a pint, and they’d gone to the pub more out of habit than a desire to drink. They didn’t need excuses to spend time together now, did they? They’d gulped their drink quickly, a mere formality, and had walked to Jamie’s halls in a bit of a rush. Frank hadn’t stopped talking their whole way there, about music, the weather, anything that had crossed his mind, apparently. Jamie’d been wondering if he should interrupt to invite him inside, when Frank had gone and, amidst all the babbling, had said, Can I come in? And Jamie’d said, as if he hadn’t been dying to hear just that, What are you, a vampire? Just get in.

As soon as the door was closed behind them, they had started to kiss and to pull each other clothes off. Even that first night, Frank had stayed in. And when Jamie had woken up the next morning for class, it had felt crazy—too much, too good—to have Frank half-asleep and mostly naked in his bed, telling him, Can I stay a couple more hours? My first class isn’t until eleven, and pulling him down by the sweater. And Jamie saying, Do whatever, and leaning to kiss him before leaving.

The visits at the pub had stopped then, and after a few days, it was not only after band practice that they retired into Jamie’s room whenever they had some free time. It was four days for their biggest gig yet—and yet, Frank had never thought so little about music. The band was still his main concern, but when Jamie asked him about it, he said: I’m sure it’ll be alright.

Jamie loved this and hated other things. First, that their relationship seemed to be secret, actively. He was prepared for Frank not wanting anything serious—hell, he was figuring his own feelings out—and he was prepared for Frank being weary of coming out. What he did, though, was outright lie: Pretend in front of the others that he hadn’t seen Jamie since the last Wednesday, pretend that he didn’t know things Jamie had told him, and talk excessively about the girls they’d pick up at the gig (this last one was the least of Jamie’s worries). Second, that even though Frank spent half of his nights with him, he could tell he still felt weird about it. Two tall-enough guys (even if one skinnier than the other) in a single twin-sized bed couldn’t really have a good night rest unless they really cuddled it up and, guess what Frank wasn’t into?

Upon these, Jamie’s approach was the same: Time would tell. Until then? He’d enjoy it.

 

**Two months later  
DECEMBER 25th, 2016**

Jamie was playing FIFA with Brian, his youngest brother, while keeping an eye on his other brother Noah, who played with his mobile at some card game, and Ruby, his baby cousin sleeping in the cradle, while their mum and aunt were at the kitchen cooking. He’d wanted to help with the food, but his mum had said he’d be more useful distracting the kids. Of course, his mum had noticed how happy he looked, how excited he was about Uni life and the band and, well, everything. She hadn’t asked, and he hadn’t told her, but he knew she suspected there was a guy. And, well, the only thing that prevented him from saying anything was the secrecy element of their relationship—that is, not because it was a secret, but because his mum would hit him in the head with a pan if she knew he allowed someone to treat him like that.

He was telling Brian what he had to do to win, while huhing at Noah’s long soliloquy on why girls sucked, when he heard his phone ping. The fact there was a possibility that the message was from Frank made him smile like an idiot—a fact Brian recalled—and cough to disguise it. Noah had taken the phone, which had been lying on the sofa, and handed it to him with a, Who’s Frank? Obviously, Jamie tried to take the phone right away from his hands without losing his dignity. Even then, he waited until they were all distracted by their mum saying, The chicken is ready! Don’t sit down until you’ve washed your hands! to unlock it and read what the message said. Which was: when the fuck are you coming back you knobhead. He threw his head back and laughed, giddy at such perfect happiness.

 

**One week later  
JANUARY 1st, 2017**

Jamie hadn’t expected Frank to be waiting for him at the station when he’d arrived to Manchester, but he had hoped it—he had asked him for his time of arrival, after all. He’d walked to the bus station and had reminded himself that this was how their relationship worked: He didn’t expect anything from Frank, and he took all Frank gave him. It wasn’t as bad as it sounded, it just meant that he was happy with what he got, and that he wanted to be with Frank whatever the circumstances. It also worked because, despite having such a weird way of showing it, he suspected Frank felt the same about him.

He knew it now, listening to music together in bed, he’d known it a few hours earlier, when the clock had turned twelve and Frank had grinned at him in the crowd, and he’d known it three days ago, after arriving from London.

Because while Jamie was still reminding himself that this was how their relationship worked, he had found Frank waiting by his door, sitting on the floor. He’d been so startled to see him there, he’d become afraid he would say something he’d regret later—something that rhymed with I drove you. Frank hadn’t been as good at containing himself and, as soon as Jamie’d opened the door, he’d pushed him inside and kissed him without a pause, a hand pulling at his trousers and the words, I’ve missed you so much, coming out of his mouth.

The next three days had been a dream, a hazy perfect dream. All of Frank’s housemates had been away for the holidays, and so they’d set up base there. It felt weird, after two months of sneaking around in Jamie’s room, to have a full house to themselves. Anywhere was fair game to kiss, sing, play music, talk, shag, eat. Frank, boasting he never got cold, barely every bothered to get dressed. For New Year’s Eve, their last night alone, they’d gone out to celebrate with some of Frank’s classmates and friends. On their way back, and after they’d got off the bus, Jamie’d said:

“I can’t believe my halls was only half-way to your home, you must have walked for two hours after every band practice.”

Frank had looked at him with a half-smile and had licked his lips: “About that,” he’d said and opened the door to the house.

“What?” Jamie had followed him inside. “What?”

It was noon of January 1st and Jamie would have to get up soon, call home and wish them a happy new year. And yet, there wasn’t anywhere he’d rather be than cuddled up—one issue solved—with Frank in bed, in a house with central heating, with _6 Feet Beneath the Moon_ playing on the background. Jamie kissed the tattoo on Frank’s shoulder of a burnt-tree and saw that all his hairs rose up at his arms, so he lowered his head a bit more, and left another kiss on the way to his chest.

“Do all these mean something?”

“Aye,” Frank’d looked down at Jamie, which was tracing the roots of the tree with his lips, “though I’ve mostly forgotten what.”

Jamie moved away and laughed, resting his back on the king-sized bed and sighing loudly. Frank lied sideways and turned to look at him, propping his face on his left hand.

“Well, don’t stop now.”

Jamie looked at him and thought to say, You could get a tattoo about this, to remember this, to remember us, or me. But he couldn’t, so instead he said: “Why did you laugh last night, about the walk home?”

Frank was distracted looking at Jamie’s arms, which were as dreamy naked as one expected when clothed. Just strong, and hard, but smooth, and shiny dark brown. He then looked up and smirked again: “I just walked you home, mate, I took the bus as soon as you turned your back on me.”

He leaned in to kiss him, but Jamie was so startled he didn’t react at first. Turned out, Frank had just been humouring him from the beginning. After Frank kissed him, he pushed him away so that he would lie flat on his back.

“You should get a tattoo about us,” he said before.

 

**A month and a half later  
FEBRUARY 2017**

It was a week to their pub gig, and they were all behaving a bit erratically. They’d been working on some new songs, and this would be their first gig without Will (who had unceremoniously left them for a record deal) with their friends in the public. Frank wanted to take the opportunity to bring the band on a different, more hardcore, direction, whereas Henry (Crawford was slowly becoming Henry) seemed to spend the days writing love-songs, now, experiencing for the first time in his life—Jamie could tell—the pains of unrequired love.

Earlier that day, he’d been with Frank when he’d received a message from Mary, asking him what were they up to, and did they fancy a pint? Though they didn’t mention it to each other, they both had been curious at what that “they” implied. Did she mean the band, did she mean, specifically, Frank and Jamie? They both separately concluded that if she meant the band, she would’ve written to her brother, and so, with different degrees of uneasiness, realised it meant them: Frank and Jamie. Frank’d answered in first person singular, as if Jamie hadn’t been there with him, but still had expected him to come. Jamie usually worked at the Tesco Express on the weekends, but being a Thursday, he’d been free and happy to go. He’d got there before the others, when only Mary and her friend Caroline had been there. He’d waved at them and approached them, both receiving him as if they were old friends. He liked them, to be honest, but he was also quite sure that not seeing them very often had something to do with it: Mary was a less-lethargic version of her brother, and Caroline would've come off as mean if she hadn’t been so visibly clueless half the time.

A couple of hours later, the five of them were packed in a C-shaped booth, with Henry at one side and Frank at the other, Jamie between Caroline and his secret boyfriend. No matter how many people they were with, Frank always managed to sit beside him. Lately, he’d taken these moments to sneak a hand on his thigh, or to rub his feet on his shin, or to touch his arse when nobody was looking. Right now, Frank’s hands were on the table, helping him lean towards Henry, but Jamie knew it wouldn’t last much longer. Strangely, he was not a fan of these gestures, feeling them more as a reminder of the secrecy of their relationship than of their need for closeness, and fearing Frank enjoyed them more for the thrill of being caught—which, he knew, would kill him if actually happened—than for the pleasure of touching him. It was annoying though that despite this being how he felt about it, his body still reacted positively to any of Frank’s advances. Bloody hell.

“What I think is,” said Henry, trying to bring peace, “if music is just something you see as your profession, and then you just care about the money you make…”

“Then you’re a fucking sell-out.”

“Alright, and what if you do terrible pop music cos that’s what you enjoy?”

“C’mon,” Frank waved a hand (the one with the spade tattoo) as if that argument didn’t matter, “no one who really likes music can like current mainstream pop.”

“Excuse me,” Caroline said, with a nerve Jamie hadn’t noticed before, “but I like mainstream pop.”

“Well, you’re not a musician,” said Frank, kindly. However, it wasn’t clear if what he meant was that it didn’t matter because at least she couldn’t inflict it on the world, or that the fact she wasn’t a musician also implied she had no clue about what good music was. Both options were more offensive and condescending than he’d intended.

“I think here are two issues here we’re getting mixed up,” Jamie said, finally taking the word, “one is taste, which is subjective… and the other one’s authenticity—or, whatever—right?”

Frank nodded in agreement and hid a hand under the table.

“You’re right,” Henry agreed, “but then this would suggest that playing bad music because you like it is alright, but playing bad music because it’s what sells, it’s not.”

“And then, how can we know the difference?” Jamie shrugged, trying to not lose sight of the conversation despite having Frank’s index finger on his knee.

“Both things are bad, I think,” Frank said, as if he were not affected by his own actions, “but only one is—deceitful.” He then casually rested the rest of his hand on Jamie’s lower thigh, not clasping it but leaving it there.

“This does imply, though, that there is such good thing as bad music and good music, and that some people play and listen to the wrong type.” This was typical of Henry—while Mary was clearly on the side of everything goes, even though she herself wouldn’t be caught dead listening to Taylor Swift, or even Coldplay, and Frank was the purist, saviour and keeper of good music, Henry liked to change sides, always arguing against the one that was wining. Caroline, on the other hand, only bothered to chip in when she felt attacked personally, and Jamie—well, Jamie just tried to make Frank look better, generally.

“There is,” Frank said, very seriously, “but that’s a topic for another day.”

“No, no, I want to know,” Caroline asked, tossing her blonde hair to one side. “Right now, to me the only difference between good music and bad music is that one I am supposed to hide from you that I’m listening.”

Frank smiled, but, forgetting his hand for a second, said: “You must know, on some level.”

“Look,” she said, “I only know if I enjoy it or not.”

“The truth is, there is no actual agreement on what makes some songs good or not,” Henry started his sermon, as he liked to do. This time, because he had just been rejected and was visibly broken-hearted, they allowed it without side-eye glances. “Is it how original the progression of chords are? the harmonies? It is about how complex it is? The fact it transcends genre, or that fact that you cannot predict it completely?”

“Yes to all of this,” Frank said. He wanted the cake and to eat it too, in all aspects of life. He was now gulping down his Guinness while at the same time dragging his hand languidly up and down Jamie’s thigh. He, Jamie, had to look down for a second so that he could step on his food discreetly and make him stop. How was he supposed to have conversations otherwise?

“What about,” Jamie had to clear his throat because his voice had come out half-choked, “how it influences other bands, or like, its place in music history?”

“That’s important, but also, think of all the producers’ agenda’s and such. Bad bands can survive history.”

“Look at Queen,” said Frank, always looking to start a fight.

“To me, I think,” Mary said, ignoring him, “is emotional. How you connect to something, if it makes you feel something. Which I get is deeply personal and subjective but.” Caroline tried to hold a yawn, and Jamie nodded. Frank had removed his hand but then pinched him on the side of his arse. Delightful as always. “And if a band, or a singer, connects to what they do, it’s easier I’ll do it as well.”

“Aye, you have to play your truth,” Frank agreed. “Which is why a band should play its own fucking music.”

Henry threw him a napkin from his side of the booth.

“You haven’t written a single lyric in your life!” He said it with a laugh, though, and only because Frank had always expressed his lack of interest in writing songs.

“Well that is not the same, is it?” Frank looked at Jamie to side with him on this, and then to Henry, half-smiling. Jamie noticed how Caroline and Mary had started their own side-conversation.

“Why the hell not?” Henry asked, suddenly apparently bothered. “You think our songs would play the same without lyrics?”

They were looking at him, Caroline and Mary, and now he was too distracted to pay attention to either of the conversations, despite Frank having just brought both his hands to the surface again to illustrate his point.

“Of course lyrics matter, but look, even the lyrics are not as important as the melody, and then the melody is as important as the fucking harmony.”

“Alright then, let’s play _Blackout_ with the lyrics of the fucking _A Team_ and see how it sounds, don’t we?”

“Jamie,” so Jamie looked at Mary, across from Caroline, who was talking to him. So he hadn’t imagined it.

“Yeah?” He raised his chin a bit, to signal he was listening.

“We were saying,” and she looked first at Caroline and then at him. On the background, the other two keep talking about lyrics (Frank’s saying: Have you heard Hello, Goodbye from the fucking Beatles? And Henry: Since fucking when do you like The Beatles). “I’ve got a friend who, you know, saw you at the last party, and she thinks you’re cute. She says—”

“What?” Frank interrupted his own conversation to look over at Mary.

“What?” Jamie asked, wanting to know what Mary’s friend said, even if out of politeness.

“She said not to tell you, but I think she fancies you?”

“And even then, simple or absurd lyrics are not the same as cliched, predictable, insincere lyrics that are trying to pass off as sentimental,” said Henry, to no-one. Still, Frank looked at him for a second, not knowing what to answer to that.

“Oh,” said Jamie.

“Can I tell her to add you on Facebook? Since you don’t have Insta—”

Jamie was not used to that sort of attention, and so he looked at Caroline at his side, who was smiling, and at Mary, who with her brows raised, was waiting a response. He scratched his ear lightly, just because he felt so shy right now, and said: “Well, yeah, but—I’m into guys.”

“Oh, well,” said Mary, good, perfect Mary, not missing a beat, “then forget I said anything!” The others, though, the others, Jamie noticed were staring at him. He hadn’t meant to come out, the same way he’d never meant to be closeted: The topic had just never been mentioned before. Caroline had blushed a bit, he could tell, but was still smiling, and Henry had finally stopped looking at Frank to nod at him, saying: “I didn’t know that,” and then returning to the topic. “Some absurdity is allowed, which is what that song was anyway. It’s not trying to pass out as genuine emotion.”

And Frank was still looking at him. Jamie looked at him as if nothing, and then at Henry.

“Yeah, I agree, dishonesty is where it goes sour,” he said to him, saying Frank had frozen and was not unable to speak up, “but I don’t mind songs that don’t talk about anything either.” Jamie looked at Frank and said, “Right?” Frank looked back at him with vacant eyes and nodded. Fuck. Fuck. “Exactly right,” he said, finally. His hands remained on the table the rest of the night.

 

**Two hours later  
FEBRUARY 2017**

This time they didn’t need to pretend to say goodbye to each other, and then wait up for the other to come back, as they had done countless times. They’d left Henry at the city and the rest had got in a taxi, Caroline saying she’d paid for it, she would definitely pay for it, just don’t make her wait for a bus right now, alright? The girls were both laughing at something when they got off the car, Caroline handing Jamie a few banknotes—she didn’t even count them: rich people—to pay the fare, and then they were alone. And in silence. Jamie looked for the thousandth time at his mobile phone’s screen, just to distract himself (it marked 1.13 am), and then out the window. He signalled the driver where he should stop and, despite Frank having said in front of the girls that he was going all the way to Didsbury, he got off with him in front of his halls, as Jamie knew he would. He just really hoped he was wrong about his hunch.

It didn’t look like it. He followed him inside the gates and all the way to his flat, waited in silence while he opened his bedroom’s door, and then got inside in silence too. He wouldn’t say anything, and Jamie didn’t want to ask, What’s wrong? Because he didn’t want to hear it. Jamie hung his coat and scarf over a chair, Frank threw his on the floor. Jamie looked at him from the corner of his eyes, afraid looking at him directly would start what he knew was coming. Frank was taking his shoes off and his sweater, but he was still looking grim. Jamie got a water bottle and gulped half of it down, then passed it to Frank, who snubbed it. Frank was down to his t-shirt and was unbuttoning his jeans when Jamie, unable to postpone it any longer, sat on the bed still fully clothed and said: “Alright, what’s wrong.”

Of course Frank had been waiting for him to say just that. He looked at him like he was an idiot, and Jamie felt something twist in his stomach.

“Nothing.”

Jamie was still looking at him, who was failing at passing the leg of his jeans through his left foot. It would’ve helped him to sit down, but apparently Frank wanted to make a spectacle.

“Why did you have to say that, though?”

Jamie swallowed hard. He knew what he meant, and anyway he asked: “Say what?”

“She hadn’t even asked that, you realise? You could’ve given any excuse.”

“It’s not an excuse, it’s who am I.” He felt his blood start boiling, there where he’d first felt the pinch, and although he didn’t want to have this fight, if it came to it, he knew he would have it.

“Well yes, couldn’t you at least have given me the heads up?” Frank was still avoiding his look, sounding angry and fighting with his jeans, until he finally desisted and pulled them up again.

“About the fact I’m into guys?” Jamie’s tone was deliberately sarcastic.

Frank looked up at him, now, and approached him, except if his face was red Jamie suspected it wasn’t from embarrassment.

“You should’ve told me before saying it to them!”

It was terrible to be having this fight and to know himself to be in the right, because Jamie didn’t want to be right, he wanted to be kissed. Instead, he looked up, and gathering energy from who knew where, exclaimed in the same tone of voice: “What the fuck, Frank? I don’t need your permission to come out!”

“Don’t you realise what this means for me? What do you think people’ll think now, when they see us together all the time?”

He said it with such bitterness that Jamie felt deflated, he said: “Oh,” and looked away.

“We’ll have to be ultracareful now, don’t you see?” Frank had missed Jamie’s expression, hadn’t realised yet what was happening, and lived momentarily in a parallel reality where he was just being annoyingly cautious. “It was alright when they didn’t know you were…”

“Gay,” Jamie said, looking up at him again. Frank wasn’t even able to say it. He rested his weight with a hand on each knee, sighed loudly. “I don’t think this is such a good idea.”

“What?” It was at that moment that Frank looked at him and caught a glimpse of Jamie’s face, tone, at his tired gesture, and he finally heard what he had said.

“All of it,” Jamie said, with burning eyes, and waved a hand to signal You and Me, but not looking at him because then he wouldn’t.

Frank hadn’t been ready for that, but he was still feeling enough bitterness to be an arse about it. “Are you fucking with me.” And then, when Jamie neither said anything nor looked up at him, he picked up his sweater from the floor and said: “You’re fucking serious.”

“That’s the best way for people not to find out, right?” Jamie said, finally looking at him. “If there’s nothing to find out. It’ll be easier, really.”

Frank’s face was red from anger, also possibly shame and embarrassment—was Jamie breaking up with him? He put his sweater on and then looked for the rest of his clothes on the floor, for his shoes. “Fucking perfect.”

As soon as he had his shoes on, Frank opened the door and left, not looking back. Jamie buried his face in his pillow and tried to control his heart rate so that his head wouldn’t explode. He mostly wished he wasn’t in the right so that he could apologise and make up already.

 

**Two weeks later  
MARCH 2017**

Jamie looked up from the cash register and saw Frank come in with Charlie, who was talking about a recent football match. Charlie greeted him with a grin and a, Hey Jamie, how’re you doing, mate? and Frank just nodded at him, eyes half-closed, not a hint of a smile. It wasn’t the first time he’d come to the shop, and it wasn’t the first time he’d come with other people, either, and still Jamie was surprised to see him there. It had probably been Charlie’s idea, and Frank hadn’t been able to provide an excuse. He tried not to look as if he was watching them, though he was, walking through the tiny aisles and grabbing a bottle of water and one of Bell’s whisky that would probably go on to fill their flask and strengthen their pub-bought drinks. As they waited for their turn to pay after an old man, he stole glances at Frank. His skin looked paler than usual, he was wearing a black wool hat, his nose and ears looked red, and his wrists looked tiny coming out from his coat. Even like this Jamie thought he looked hot. He said bye to the man, and then smiled at Charlie.

“So, are you coming later?” Charlie asked, while Jamie rang the items and he looked for his wallet. Seeing the blank look on Jamie’s face, he added “It’s Richard’s birthday, we’re going to the pub now.”

It was very typical of Charlie to assume that a) he knew who Richard was (though, now that he thought about it, was he Darcy’s cousin?) and b) that everybody he knew was invited, even if you hadn’t invited them. Jamie shook his head while he ran his card and looked at Frank. Charlie said “Oh, you should come!” and because he was looking at him, Jamie saw the panicked look on Frank’s face.

So, that’s what it had come to.

“I don’t think so, mate, but thanks anyway,” he smiled at Charlie, or tried to anyway, and handed him back the card. Charlie shrugged and smiled, said, Have a good one, and left.

Frank wasn’t looking at him anymore, but Jamie heard him say, Bye, and couldn’t answer.

He thought of a day when, probably some weeks before Christmas, Frank had come to the shop and had given him conversation for a full hour until closing time, taking every chance they were alone to kiss him.

After they’d closed the shop, he walked all the way back to his halls. He hated the cold, hated the rain and the snow, and still hadn’t got used to it. Compared to this, London was Spain. Even then, he would rather walk for more than an hour, wrapped in a hand-knitted (by her aunt) scarf and hat, in a big old coat and two sets of gloves and socks, than to get the bus and be early in his room. What would he do there? Not sleep, unfortunately. He hadn’t slept through the night for the past two weeks.

It was almost 1 am when he reached his halls, and at first he didn’t recognise the figure sitting on a bench by the front gate. He was crouched over himself and could’ve been either sleep or dead. Yet, when Jamie approached, he looked up at him and said: “That took you a while.”

 

**The next moment  
MARCH 2017**

Frank hadn’t ended there by accident, he had deliberately left the pub early, taken the bus, and got off at Jamie’s stop, then had waited for almost an hour on this bench trying to decide if this was a good idea or not. He felt mostly sober at this point, but still the idea had never seemed good, just necessary. He missed Jamie, he missed all of it: the touch of his hands and the smoothness of his lips, being able to look into his eyes with abandon—it was dumb, but it was true: he missed looking into his dark brown eyes; also the sound of his incredulous laugh, a sort of He, that turned into a Ha mid-way, and the way he touched his ear whenever he was nervous; also how he always tried to see things from other people’s point of view, and laughed when Frank became too much. Deep inside he knew they’d been doing things his way, but the egotist in him said: Well, had Jamie said what he wanted? Not once, whereas he, he said it all the time. In fact, Jamie looked always so poised, so regal—Frank had once jokingly said that he looked like a Nubian prince, and Jamie’d said, Yoruba cashier, mate, which, yeah—even in his fake-Adidas sweatshirt he looked dignified. It made him fear nothing really could affect him or disturb him. Maybe, even, that if Jamie was so alright with all of this it was because he really didn’t care about him as much as Frank did about him. Such insecurities were temporary, but he wanted to test them, tonight, he wanted to know: Was it worth it, or was it not?

“Frank?”

Frank smiled, aware the smile would come out as tired, and waited for him to approach without saying anything.

“Are you alright?”

“What do you think?” Frank asked, when he got closer. Jamie inspected him, his expression undecipherable.

“You don’t look drunk.”

Frank shrugged, “Well, it wasn’t for a lack of trying.”

Jamie didn’t laugh or say anything, he just looked at his shoes and crossed his arms over his chest.

“What are you doing here?”

Frank could see the condensation of his own breath even just by opening his mouth, then he started coughing. “Can’t you sit for a sec?” And pointed to his side with his beautiful jaw.

Jamie didn’t move, and only looked at him for a second. Could it be that he really did not care that much? That he found this loss acceptable? That he slept well, that he ate well, that he did not spend every waking hour missing the sound of his voice? Frank rubbed his face to try both to wake himself up and to not cry. “Fuck.” He hid his face between his hands and then, after a few seconds, and seeing as Jamie still didn’t move or reacted, got up to leave.

Jamie was speechless: “That’s all?”

“What?” Frank looked back at him, red eyes, red nose, weird voice, “What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know, why did you come here?”

Frank stared at him in disbelief, what kind of question was that? “What do you think?” He sounded anxious, and tried to approach Jamie to face him, to make him look at him, “you think I’ve been freezing here for an hour cos…” It was around that point that he realised he hadn’t said a thing, that he’d made this big gesture of freezing to death past midnight on a Saturday, and then hadn’t bothered to say a single word to accompany it. Well, he had always sucked at lyrics, “You don’t think I came here because I want to be with you?”

Now he’d got his attention, Jamie looked up at him and he could see he was hesitating.

“You really can’t forgive me?”

And then he saw it, the moment Jamie stopped being prince-like and became a very tired boy. He noticed that he had bags under his eyes, that he probably hadn’t been sleeping all that well, either, that he had been walking at night in the cold because of him, that his skin looked more grey than brown—that he was a mess, that he’d never been less handsome and yet more attractive to him.

“You hadn’t asked,” he said, and then, seeing Frank still wasn’t sure about what to do, he added: “Of course, yes, I do,” and started removing his gloves.

Frank relaxed and said, “I thought you were better without me,” realising only now that the fact he was so proud of never wearing gloves and barely an appropriate coat—To this you call winter?—this time might have caused him to catch hypothermia.

Jamie reached for his face with his, now gloveless, hands, and said: “How can you say that?” The world was spinning a bit, either from cold or happiness, maybe relief. Frank breathed out, white, dense breath, and let his forehead rest on Jamie’s, his hands, on Jamie’s wrists. “Frank, you’re freezing.” Jamie wrapped him in a hug, protecting him from the cold air by making him hide his face on his neck.

With his eyes closed, his voice barely audible, Frank murmured: “I love you, Jamie.”

And Jamie said: “Let’s get you inside.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a soundtrack to this fic that [can be found here](https://open.spotify.com/user/vp5rdc9vqnp6edwo6ux8rg3ps/playlist/6iSTNdvGxeAOpzVI6wAC2t?si=hbqLmz7JQViprSgA4sm3Pw).


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He knew that, if he had to choose, he would choose Jamie over his social life and reputation, but he would rather never be put in the position. Until then he’d assumed—not thought, exactly, it hadn’t taken shape before that day—that even if he chose the latter, Jamie would still be there, whereas he wasn’t sure of the opposite. It hadn’t been until that conversation that he’d realised that maybe, maybe, Jamie wouldn’t be waiting eternally.
> 
> \---
> 
> WARNING: This story has a sad ending!!! If you don't like sad endings:  
> \- STOP READING HERE and consider the end of Chapter 2 the real ending  
> \- Wait till I've posted the next fic in the series, in which they WILL get a Happily Ever After and this one will be needed for context  
> FURTHER WARNING: This chapter contains minor spoilers for Dear Lula (mainly, one of the main ships)

_The start of nothing, I could hate you_  
now _It's quite alright to hate me now_  
_When we both know that deep down_  
_The feeling still deep down is good_

 

**Twelve hours later**  
**MARCH 2017**

He’d woken up feeling Jamie’s chin on his back, and he’d been so happy he could’ve sung—although, luckily, he hadn’t, he’d delegated that completely to Henry and Jamie. He’d turned around and kissed Jamie’s jaw, then they’d got up and gone out for coffee and breakfast.

Though to him last night had felt like the beginning of everything, their new start, where bygones became bygones and only good things would henceforth await them, he realised now sitting in the café that maybe it hadn’t been so for Jamie. He was smiling and as gentle as always, but he looked too pensive for Frank’s taste, his shoes too gazed. He should’ve realised sooner, though, there was little he could do about it now that they were out and in public, a plate of chips, sausages and eggs between them (Jamie tended to order only coffee and toast, claiming not to be hungry, but never refused any of the food Frank put on his plate).

After neither of them had said anything for a while, Frank talked in a serious, rare tone for him:

“It’s just for a little bit longer,” Jamie looked up at him, startled. He was a subtle person, but he couldn’t have been a professional poker player. Just by the shape of his eyebrows, Frank could tell he was waiting for him to go on and finish that sentence that he’d thought complete already. “I promise.”

Jamie looked down at the paper placemat then, folding and refolding one of its corners.

“What about being ultracareful?”

Frank felt sickened that he remembered the fight down to his wording, and though he’d meant it at the time, and though maybe he even would mean it now if he said it again, he said instead what he knew would make Jamie happier, because it felt more important.

“Forget it, alright?” And looking first to both sides, he placed his hand—white and bony—on his—nail-bitten and dark-brown. They were both looking at them when Jamie swiftly caressed his thumb with his, and they were both looking at them when Frank casually moved it away seconds later. “I was an arsehole.”

He realised Jamie had been holding his breath, because he could hear him breathing easily now.

“Your chips are getting cold,” Jamie pointed out, finally looking up at him.

“Do they? you should take them, nothing I hate more,” Jamie took the chips with an enormous grin on his face, and Frank felt his face warming up a bit. He could breathe now, too.

 

**Three months later**  
**JUNE 2017**

It had taken Jamie a full month after their reconciliation—so, six months after their first kiss—to ask him directly why did he want them to hide their relationship: Was he worried about people knowing he liked guys? Did he just want to shag other people? Was he embarrassed of him? Frank felt baffled that he considered any of these would legitimize his behaviour, that any of these would keep him publicly away from him. Plus, it hadn’t escaped Frank’s notice that, despite the cold, the hour, the context, he’d been the only one to ever express his feelings out loud. To have said that He loved him, Jamie, out loud.

“Why the fuck would I be embarrassed of you?” He’d been near mad. Didn’t Jamie know how he looked like to other people? Always so calm and kind, so handsome, so good at everything he tried to do: he was just so damn capable. “And when the hell would I have the time to fuck other people? I mean—Why?”

He had planned his discourse and it probably came out like that: That he was just waiting to become emancipated of his family, of his Mormon of a step-dad and current source of all his income, and that he just wanted time before they told Henry, who would not take well to the news that his bandmates were in a relationship. Jamie admitted to never having thought of that: Do you think he’ll mind? He’d asked, and Frank had said: Not personally, obviously, he’ll just worry of what this could mean for the band. You know he needs us, right?

And despite Frank’s original warning about being more careful, they had become less, with time. It worked because Henry was too distracted, lately, his brain occupied first on heartbreak and then on ecstatic happiness.

Even just now, in the middle of the gig they’d been playing for their biggest crowd yet, Frank had felt tempted to snog Jamie on stage (and had contained). At least he knew in that aspect the sentiment was mutual. They played like fucking geniuses, though the crowd was drunk—it was Pangaea—and would’ve enjoyed it anyway. Happiness became them, the three of them: Frank played his long-awaited solo riff—backed only by the drums—from _Wolves That Look Like Dogs_ flawlessly; Henry charmed the fuck out of everybody like he always did, and even dedicated a song to _his girlfriend_ —that was a funny thought—while Jamie sang the backing vocals for the first time live, with his beat harder and faster than in any previous gig.

After leaving the stage, they celebrated with a quick beer and some back-patting on the greenroom, before Henry left to look for Frances and Frank collapsed on the bench from exhaustion. Jamie took his soaked shirt off and Frank motioned him to c’mere before putting the clean one on. After such joy, a sudden feeling of panic had overcome him, an epiphany that was good for nothing: That this was temporary. Not the secrecy of their relationship, but the relationship itself—however long it lasted, it was temporary. Impermanence, that fucker hurt! Why couldn’t it be like this, forever?

He rested his head on Jamie’s stomach, then he kissed it, tense and salty as it was, and closed his eyes. Jamie caressed his head softly and asked him if he was alright. He couldn’t answer, but he wrapped his arms around his waist and breathed him in. Forever: Wouldn’t that be nice?

He thought he heard a door opening, and the fear of being caught instantly woke him up. He moved away and looked at Jamie, just in time to see that he had noticed his fear: his look had gone from love to disappointment in just a second.

 

**One month later**  
**JULY 2017**

Despite how much he’d been warned, Frank hadn’t been prepared for the Mediterranean heat of the summer. He wondered how the girls, which he could see from the sofa of the house they were staying in, could be sunbathing right now in the garden—particularly Caroline, usually as pale as him, now bright pink—and how the group inside—his housemates, plus Darcy’s cousin, Darcy’s girlfriend and Darcy’s sister—had the energy, or the brain-cells left, to play Uno—weren’t they hangover?

The first days in the island had been quite awful, retrospectively, but the place was so beautiful, the food so good, that they hadn’t noticed it at the time. They had finally listened to Bet, though, who knew the place well and had been telling them from the beginning how it should be done: instead of spending all day in the beach with all the tourists, instead of having dinner at seven already sunburnt and completely exhausted, they’d started to elongate their mornings in bed, getting out only when the sun was starting to dawn, swimming in the warm early night and having dinner the local time, around eleven at night. The holidays had improved then—and until last night when, by virtue of being the last, they’d gone clubbing. Frank was ready to replace the warmth of the sun for Jamie’s any time now.

But there were two hours yet until they had to leave for the airport. In the living room, Charlie was asleep on an armchair, and Mary and Frank were making increasingly louder noises trying to dickishly wake him up. They gave up when Charlie started snoring, their own headaches only getting worse. Mary stretched her legs over Frank’s, who’d stretched his first, and, in a few minutes, each was looking at their phone. Frank didn’t have any message from Jamie since he’d last checked, though of course this didn’t mean anything, since Jamie was working full time over the summer in a shop in his neighbourhood. The last text was his, from a conversation he’d started last night. He’d asked what he was doing, and after a while, Jamie’d answered that he was with his brothers, and that he should try to enjoy himself. Frank had answered with: there’s places i’d rather tbh, which was weird, because no one had forced him to go to Menorca.

“Are you excited for next week?”

Frank didn’t look at Mary, he just kept looking at his mobile, as if it still held any interest to him. Something like that—the conversation with Jamie, not Mary—had taken place two weeks ago, for his birthday. Turning twenty-one had felt like a big deal, that he wouldn’t celebrate it as such hadn’t even crossed his mind: he’d organised a party that had filled their house and got off the rails a bit. The only problem had been Jamie’d had to work the next day, and he hadn’t even stayed the night. They’d said goodbye by the front door, unheard but not unseen, and he’d said then, to Jamie, I would’ve rather spent it with you, honestly. And Jamie had looked at him as if, Why didn’t you then? Which had forced Frank to examine the honesty of his own admission: He knew that, if he had to choose, he would choose Jamie over his social life and reputation, but he would rather never be put in the position. Until then he’d assumed—not thought, exactly, it hadn’t taken shape before that day—that even if he chose the latter, Jamie would still be there, whereas he wasn’t sure of the opposite. It hadn’t been until that conversation that he’d realised that maybe, maybe, Jamie wouldn’t be waiting eternally. And yet, he’d already paid for the plane tickets, had already asked Charlie to cover his part of the Airbnb (he’d pay it back after his first pay check, he’d promised), and couldn’t back out of the trip.

Mary kicked him, and he returned to the present.

“Excited about what?”

Maybe the constant texts were his way to compensate for it; though Jamie’s silence couldn’t be taken as a snub, he had never been a texter. He opened their conversation again and started a new message: can i come to urs when I get back? And hit send.

“Your new job?” Mary looked at him with her brows raised, “who would’ve thought that of all of us, you’d go on to become the biggest shot?”

Frank had to snort at that.

“Aye, it’s the dream, being a fucking puppet to the system.”

“Well, you did get into Business.”

“In my defence, I never thought I’d finish it,” Mary first chuckled and then laughed, and it caught on Frank, who laughed too.

“Well, you can quit when Several Circles makes it—”  

Mary smiled at him, and he daydreamed about what would happen if the band took off.

“Well, that’s the plan,” he’d missed the vibration, but his phone had a white light, which meant he had a message. He turned the phone on and saw that Jamie’d replied: yeah, i’d like that. He looked up with a grin on his face, which he wished he could control but couldn’t. Jamie was the most patient person in the universe, but he wasn’t the most vocal, so to imagine him writing this gave him a fuzzy feeling inside.

“What’s up with you?” Mary had a cheeky smile on her face he didn’t like one bit, “Who are you texting with?”

“No one,” Frank said noncommittally, still grinning. Let her think what she wanted. He thought about it before answering: then i'll be there, and contemplated using an emoji. Their text history consisted mostly of short practical sentences, and the only discernible emoji, if any, was the thumbs up. Maybe if he were dating a girl he could get away with the heart-eyed emoji, but he didn’t feel that daring. Finally, he went for the beaming face with a grin, still a first for him, and felt very brave. He put the phone down and looked at Mary, ready to give her all his attention—which, hangover as he was, wasn’t that focused to be honest.

 

**Three months later**  
**OCTOBER 2017**

It was a year they’d been together: Not that they mentioned it, not that they would be celebrating it, it wouldn’t have been their style even if they’d been public, but Jamie couldn’t shake the thought off. He would’ve liked to know if Frank realised this—maybe the year had passed more quickly for him? A year of having to lie to people about where he was, who he dated, a year of pretending he didn’t want to hold Frank’s hand whenever they walked on the street, a year of not being invited to Frank’s house dos like the rest of boyfriends and girlfriends. He had never told him any of these things bothered him, but he didn’t think he needed to: wasn’t it obvious, wasn’t it logical? He was asking for normalcy, after all, for their relationship to become public to become more casual—that secrecy thing, that secrecy thing for a year, gave it a sort of pathos he wasn’t sure he was old enough to pull off.

He hadn’t mentioned it either after Frank had started working as a graduate-level consultant on E&Y, though that was the condition he’d put that day in early April: to become financially independent. He hadn’t mentioned it after his first pay check, nor his second, just a few weeks ago. Not mentioning it felt like the adult, dignified thing to do, but then sometimes he wasn’t able to hide the bitterness he’d started to feel, and he knew that wasn’t very mature either.

Still, moments like this, like now, lying in bed to each his own while casually exchanging words and caresses, justified everything. Frank had had to let his hair grow for the job, and Jamie’d been startled to see how much he changed with just an inch of brown wavy hair at the top of his head. He’d had to get used to it—as he’d got used to seeing him in chinos instead of his skinny jeans—but now—unlike with the chinos—he liked it a whole lot. Frank was also asked to hide his tattoos while in the office, which he did by never rolling up his sleeves (there was little he could do about the ones in his hands), but had drawn the line at removing the earring—thankfully.

“That’s pure bollocks, listen to this,” Frank turned towards him, which was fine because it was not like he’d actually been reading his book (Kate Tempest’s novel, which Frank had bought him), and heard him complain about a reviewer that had compared a Band Jamie Didn’t Know to a Band He Knew But Couldn’t See The Problem With. Frank was reading from his phone and had his free hand on Jamie’s upper thigh. Because he didn’t want his work shirts to get wrinkled, he always took them off as soon as he got to Jamie’s, sometimes replacing them with one of Jamie’s sweaters, sometimes not.

The whole scene was hugely familiar (Frank’s presence, the hand, them in bed) and strangely off-putting (the hair, the chinos, Frank wearing his sweater), but the thought of it only worked to make him feel a weird wave of nostalgia, and then of love, for him.

“You know I don’t know what you’re talking about, right?” He put the book down and beamed at him. Frank only realised when he turned to look at him, and then he smiled.

“Aye, baby,” he leaned in to kiss him, while simultaneously moving the hand dangerously near the crotch. But then he went and said, “You know, I’ve been thinking,” and Jamie had to regroup.

“What?”

“Why wait for the band to kick off? I just need time to put into it, I’ve got a couple of new songs playing on the back of my head and I don’t even have the time to sit down and play them out, you know? Now that Henry’s so happy and has this writing gig, I mean—If I don’t put all my effort into it, then who?” He’d moved away from Jamie, removed the hand, just so that he could face him instead of being by his side. “You know?”

“You mean—quitting your job?”

“Aye,” he said it with such energy, he must have mistaken Jamie’s silence for approval. “Dedicate all my time to the band. I think maybe we could be living off it soon?”

“You think?” Jamie stood up straighter, not so much disappointed at what this would mean for their relationship—secrecy, probably—but at having to be the person to say the following: “You cannot bet your future on You think. You know how many musicians live off their music?”

“We’re fucking brilliant, Jamie.”

“I know,” though he didn’t know it. He liked the music they played, he wouldn’t have stayed in the band otherwise, but he wouldn’t have sworn, like Henry and Frank did, that they were good. “Let’s say it happen. Until then though? What?”

“I can milk my step-father dry, he’ll be chuffed I haven’t lasted more than three months in a corporate job.”

Jamie managed to avoid the words, But then what about us, come out of his lips, but because he was frustrated, he couldn’t hide the sentiment. “You know I work two jobs, don’t you? Apart from Uni?” This was meant to include it all: That despite being so busy, he did have time for the band (though, yeah, he hadn’t composed any song); that Frank could take an office job for a few more months if he could handle being a cashier at Tesco on the weekends, a lunchtime waiter at the vegan Uni café three days a week and a private occasional DJ for more than two years now; that quitting the job meant postponing their going public indefinitely; that he had no idea of what being poor meant and that he could at least have the decency to hide it, or to, I don’t know, pay for his food and beers always, and not just when he felt generous.

Maybe Frank did not get all of it, but he got enough. The eager look in his eyes disappeared and he looked at least a bit guilty.

“I mean. Sorry. I just—fucking hate this job so much,” he looked helpless when he said that, and Jamie realised that he meant it. It was not that he liked working so many hours just to send the money home, but he’d never had the privilege to hate it: he had to do it, so he did it. Though Frank was far from rich—he knew his step-father paid for his rent and tuition, but he made him account for any pound he spent outside what he considered everyday necessities—he’d never had to work before, much less a 37-hour job in an office, and his despair at the situation was genuine. It was easy to forget sometimes: that other people’s lives had been easier than his didn’t make them exempt of problems, and that no experience could be truly compared outside of its subject.

So, he reached for Frank’s neck and put his hand there, softly caressing his jawline with his thumb: “I know.”

 

**Two months later**  
**DECEMBER 2017**

Frank hadn’t quit the job and had even admitted once, while they were getting back from band practice, that it wasn’t that bad now that he’d started to get along with some of his workmates. They’d been talking and walking, and Frank had looked happier than he’d been for a while, which had been both a shock and a relief to notice. He’d even put his arm over Jamie’s shoulders, in a friendly, manly way, and admitted he’d decided to go home for Christmas, his mum claiming He would kill her if he skipped Christmas again. He hadn’t been home in a year and a half, since that summer after Jamie’s attempt at a kiss, and the fact that he would go now made him think that maybe it was as an act of closure. To finally break off with them and start the new chapter of their lives.

That had been a good night.

So good that the next morning during class Jamie’d received a text from Frank that said: it’s gonna be hell without u, and then, to make it less romantic—he guessed that explained it—the eggplant emoji. He’d had to laugh, the bad mood of the past few months evaporated with the expectation of what was to come—he could finally see the light at the end of the tunnel.

Which was why it hurt so much more now, when Frank almost jumped over the pub’s table to take his phone from Mary’s hands. His face had been red and, his tone, almost outraged. He’d basically yelled, Don’t fucking touch it! And, obviously, Mary’d been startled:

“Jesus Fucking Christ!” She said, leaving the phone on the table in front of her, before he went and took it, “calm your tits, mate, I wasn’t gonna _do_ anything.”

Frank’s breath didn’t even out until he had his mobile in his hands, Mary trying to get over the scare—she didn’t like looking rattled—and Henry and Frances, who’d been talking to each other at one side of the both, looking at them with their brows raised: “What happened?”

What had happened was that Mary and Frances had spontaneously come to see their last band practice for the holidays, and then they had all decided to have a farewell pint at their usual pub. Once there, Mary had wanted to ask Caroline to come too, but, because her mobile was dead, he’d took Frank’s from the table with the intention to open WhatsApp, select Caroline, and tell her where they were. And Frank had lost it. Several times they’d been on the verge of being caught—they’d been caught by Frances, but Frank didn’t know that: Jamie wasn’t gonna tell him and he knew Frances wouldn’t tell a soul—and Frank had always reacted in a quite undignified panic, but never with rage. Jamie knew why he did now, of course, if Mary opened his WhatsApp she’d see, in the preview of their conversation, the last message they’d exchanged: the one he’d sent this morning. Frank would probably have more recent conversations with other people, Mary probably wouldn’t even bother to read the sentence (though, maybe the eggplant—well, that was quite, let’s say conspicuous), but the fear wasn’t rational.

“Frank lost his mind there for a second cos he thought I was gonna read his texts.”

And Frank wrapped Mary’s shoulders with his arm, saying: “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, don’t know why I did that, I’m just private with my things.”

“I forgive you cos you look so pretty with hair, I can’t say no to you,” and Frances laughed, and Henry smirked and said: “I guess Frank’s got a friend he doesn’t want us to know about.”

Frank laughed it off, but Jamie was done. Like, utterly done. He looked at the time on his phone, just for pretence, and said: “Sorry, gotta go,” he got up and put his coat and scarf, then his wool hat, “see you after the holidays then?” He smiled at everybody, except Frank, and waved them goodbye, as they all wished him a merry Christmas and a happy new year, sending kisses and smiles his way.

Frank didn’t come right out after him, didn’t text him a thing.

Jamie walked home, and the anger he felt started to mix with sadness as he relived in his mind the past few months, every promise Frank had made—they were supposed to go on a romantic weekend to Dublin, they were, obviously, supposed to go public months ago—and every time he’d been evasive, irritable, flippant and noncommittal when Jamie had made the smallest mention to their doing something together, or when someone else had talked about them as a unit, even unknowingly. That shit fed itself too, and like a snowball, the anger had doubled by the time he got to his room.

 

**Twelve days later**  
**JANUARY 2018**

Jamie looked into Frank’s eyes and saw it: they were done, they were finished; it was over. He gulped the feeling down and said hi to Frank and Henry, being late for practice for the first time since he’d joined the band, then walked to the back of the drums. There wasn’t going to be small talk, today, and he’d already planned to leave in a hurry so that he could avoid walking back with him. He shouldn’t have bothered though, while they were picking up after what had been a mediocre session, tinted with Henry’s anecdotes of his Christmas with Frances’ family and neighbours, Frank declared his intention to meet some workmates nearby and See you next Wednesday. And the worst of it was that Jamie looked at him and said, See ya, and Frank had said, Laters.

He’d had time to go over their last fight, their last time together, first on the train ride home, and then every second his mind had had a spare moment while in London. He’d even cried on his mum’s shoulder, when she’d hugged him and said What’s with that frown, Jimmy baby, as soon as she’d seen him. And yes, it was over, and he did not quite understand why. That was not what he’d meant to happen.

That night after the pub, Frank had come to his room to say goodbye and had been surprised to find that Jamie was angry with him. What had changed?

“Nothing’s changed, and nothing will, apparently,” Jamie had let him come inside the room, but had stood there with his arms crossed uninvitingly. Not that Frank had cared, he’d always felt at home there, and hadn’t needed his permission to take off his coat and sit on the only chair.

“What are you talking about? You mean—us? I told you it’s temporary.”

“You’ve got a job for five months now!” Jamie had been exasperated, because this wasn’t even the point, he just found it difficult to explain what the point was, “you should’ve seen your face!”

“I know, I _know_ I overreacted, but I apologised to Mary already. You want me to apologise to you, now?” Unlike that other fight, this time Frank had been the calm one, the one that was sure—that seemed to have been sure—to be on the right, while Jamie had lost his temper, walking in circles in his room.

“Yes! You got like a fucking psycho cos you can’t bear the thought of her finding out! Does that sound normal to you?”

“Excuse me if that’s not the way I want them to find out!”

“What’s the way, then, Frank? I mean, will they ever?”

“I already said yes.”

“I’m starting to wonder if you meant it.”

Frank had just looked at him then, nodded rhythmically.

“Alright, alright, so it’s like this.”

Jamie had wanted to tell him what he really felt: It wasn’t that they were secret that anguished him, it was that Frank wanted them to be secret. That all the reasons he’d ever given him were bollocks, just well-presented arguments to hide the truth: that he was scared, or embarrassed, and wouldn’t even bother to analyse why. Frank had this talent which was to sound logical even when he wasn’t, and Jamie, who loved him so much, had chosen to believe all of it. But now he saw it clearly: Frank would never want them to become public, he’d had plenty of chances, all the challenges he’d imagined had been overcome, and only his own reservations were left. Jamie wasn’t sure if the problem was him—maybe Frank wouldn’t have been embarrassed to date a guy if the guy had been, what, rich and confident instead of shy and uninteresting?—or Frank himself—his inability to accept he was sexually and romantically attracted to a man, that he had a sexual and romantic relationship with a man.

Instead, he’d just stayed quiet and said: “Yes.”

“So it’s all or nothing?”

Jamie had hesitated, that hadn’t been what his Yes had meant, but how could Frank know if he didn’t tell him? He had just shrugged, unable to look at him. He’d been so sure, right up until that moment, that given the choice Frank would always choose him.

He’d said he loved him.

And he’d never said it back.

“That’s it, Jamie? You can’t wait anymore?” Said Frank, after a while.

“No,” he’d exhaled then, because at least this had been true. And he’d been able to tell Frank knew, he had seen it too, and still hadn’t done anything to avoid it.

Frank had looked dead calm, he’d rubbed his hair and then got up, taken his coat, and said: “Merry Christmas, then.” And left quietly, closing the door behind him as if he had all the time in the world.

Jamie had been stunned, unsure of what he’d agreed—or not agreed—to. Then they hadn’t talked for any of the twelve days they’d been apart. He’d looked at his phone at every second, having to see that last smutty text every time he opened it, and not having the heart to delete it. And then now. Despite how sad he’d been all these days at home, it wasn’t until that day that he got it, that he truly understood it: they had split, they’d broken up, and he couldn’t even act like his heart was broken.

 

**Three months later**  
**MARCH 2018**

After a while, they’d started to be able to be alone in a room and still pretend they weren’t, though at first they had both gone to great lengths to avoid this situation. At least Frank had. And now, waiting for Henry to get there, they were both in the studio talking about the song they were working on almost normally. Which was heart-breaking, really, Frank almost would’ve preferred it if Jamie had ignored him completely. But no, he was over him apparently, unlike Frank. He had been a mess these past weeks, he was sure Henry’d noticed something and pretended he hadn’t, and his housemate Ela had asked him enough questions to get half of the story (no names) out of him.

He hadn’t thought they would stay broken up for so long. He hadn’t thought they would break up for real. But Jamie had made his decision, and he couldn’t do anything but to hope that he changed his mind: that Frank didn’t want to break up, that Frank loved him—that had been made explicit, so it couldn’t be fixed by him apologising, this time. He could only hope Jamie realised it was better to be together, even if secretly, than not at all. And in his mind, it couldn’t be true that this was not the case.

I mean, who the fuck would choose _this_ over what they’d had? Not him, obviously. He missed all of it, was afraid nothing would replace it.

When Henry finally got there, he did it with news. He was thrilled, talking loudly and walking frantically from one side of the room to the other: They’d booked a tour as the supporting act of a better-known band. An eight-gig one-month British tour, with all the acts within distance of Manchester, so that it wouldn’t interfere with neither Jamie nor Frank’s jobs, and they would get paid. In pounds!

Frank thought this called for celebration and suggested going for a pint. Only after they left the studio and were about to enter the pub did Jamie admit he wasn’t getting in, he was worried he’d be late for work and, Would they have one for him? Henry, looking gutted, tried to convince him, but Frank knew it was pointless. With all the excitement, he hadn’t noticed Jamie looked sick, about to vomit or even pass out, but now he did—he saw it, and was secretly glad, though genuinely worried. Finally, Henry let him leave and got into the pub. Against his better judgement, Frank followed Jamie, who’d already taken his first steps out of the way.

“Are you alright?”

He wanted him to hate him, and now it seemed he did: His stare was dark and deep, unreadable for the first time to him, his lips tensed, unsmiling.

“I mean, the tour, that’s good, isn’t it?”

Now, still looking at him, Jamie nodded slowly—as if he would really be sick if he went faster.

Frank was terrified: it was not only that he’d lost Jamie but that, he saw it clearly now, that he was at his mercy. Why would Jamie want to tour with him? He would not—and if Jamie didn’t, what would happen to them, to Several Circles? They wouldn’t stand a chance, without him. Jamie must have seen the fear in his eyes, because he finally said: “Of course.”

It wasn’t said very convincingly, but it was said. Frank nodded too, and might have muttered a Thank you, but wouldn’t swore to it. Jamie turned to leave and this time Frank didn’t follow him, took some minutes to himself before getting inside with Henry and—celebrate.

                   

**One month and a half later**  
**MAY 2018**

It was Henry driving the rented van back from Glasgow, the last stop of the tour—Jamie on the co-pilot seat, Frank dozing off between the instruments in the back.

It had been torture, the tour. Not because being the opening act for another band meant that no one had gone to any of the gigs to see them (except, yes, that one in London, where his mum and aunt had been in the public, also Frances and Mary) and not because he’d seen Frank flirt with girls in more than in one occasion. The moment, almost two months ago, that Jamie had realised he could manage a normal conversation with Frank, his heart had finally shattered—and that tour had been that: every day for a month. At that moment he’d realised he would have to quit the band—right then, immediately—and had been wondering to himself what had taken him so long, when Henry had arrived, all excited, telling them they’d booked a tour. Deciding to stay in the band, just for the duration of the tour, hadn’t been a selfless act, only an idiotic one. He’d welcomed the excuse to see Frank, and then hated it.

Now, the tour was done.

He looked at Frank on the backseat now, eyes closed and mouth just the tiniest bit open, his bent arm on the door acting as a pillow, his chest rising and falling with each breath.

Henry stopped by his halls first, to drop him off, and wished him a good summer. Henry had declared the band needed a break, and in a week, after classes were finished, he would be in a plane for Nepal with Frances—Jamie, who by then would already be in Lewisham, bid him safe travels, and got off the van. He would wait till they got back to tell him the news, he didn’t want to ruin his holidays.

Before closing the door, he looked at Frank one last time, glad that he was asleep and would never have a memory of the last time they’d seen each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading :D:D:D
> 
> And here's [the playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/vp5rdc9vqnp6edwo6ux8rg3ps/playlist/6iSTNdvGxeAOpzVI6wAC2t?si=dAsFbLTLQ_e8OZ1isyjEPw)


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